Rue Monsieur
Early Friday evening, October 13. Dexter walked across the stone courtyard and knocked on the door. The door opened and a middle-aged lady in a housedress bade him enter. “Bonsoir, Monsieur.”
“Bonsoir, Madame.”
Dexter stepped into the foyer and handed the woman his hat and overcoat, then his suit coat, and asked, “You must be Marie?”
The woman beamed and nodded, “Oui, Monsieur.” With her hand she showed him into the drawing room. Dexter walked over and took a chair near the fireplace. The woman turned and went down the hallway towards the kitchen.
Footsteps came down the stairway and Marcelle entered the room and came across with her arms outstretched. Dexter stood and held out his arms and Marcelle glided into his embrace. “I have been like a girl all week. Couldn’t wait for tonight.” She stood on toes and kissed him, then reached around and pulled his shoulders into her chest and pushed her lips against his. She reached into his mouth with her tongue and playfully moaned, “Uhmm.”
Dexter shifted one arm up around her shoulders and with the other hand cupped one of her buttocks and pulled her into him. She twisted a hip into his and let her head fall slightly the other way, her body making an elongated S shape.
After a minute, Dexter broke off and said, “Yes, the week went slower than I thought.”
“Good. I like to be missed.”
“I want to be with you. Always,” replied Dexter.
“Uhmm...I have in mind an arrangement.” She twisted out of his arms and walked over towards the mantle.
“An arrangement? You hardly seem the type for ‘an arrangement’.”
“Okay, I used the wrong word. With me there is no cinq a sept, no blue hour. No assignation and then the man running off to his other business,” she pronounced. “I may be a mistress, but never a courtesan.” She momentarily took on a look of self-doubt, “Or is it the other way around?”
“I never thought of you that way,” and he paused, “or either way.”
She gave him a demure smile and then reached onto the mantle and started to pick something up. She held up two keys on a small chain, dangling them before her eyes as she inspected them, and then turned around. She held her arm out towards Dexter, the keys hanging on the chain between her forefinger and her thumb. She wiggled them back and forth, “Keys to the house. For you…but…”
She swung the keys back and forth before Dexter’s eyes, the keys making a small chiming sound as they clicked together. Marcelle continued, “But they are like wedding bells in a cathedral. They signal commitment. You take them and you are taking your vows.”
“Vows?”
“Always,” and she paused. “La Paz.”
“Je comprends. I understand.” Dexter cupped his right hand and held it under the keys. Marcelle dropped them into his palm. He put them in his pocket. He held out his arms and she came into his embrace and kissed him.
She held her head back from him momentarily. “Oh, yes. You are always expected for dinner. If I am not here, Marie will set it for you. I will try to call.”
“And if I can’t make it.”
“Telephone. Marie will take the call. Let’s try to be polite to one another. Our jobs are going to try to tear us apart as it is.”
Dexter nodded in thoughtful understanding and said, “My pleasure, Madame.”
“Shall we say, consider yourself ‘committed.’”
“Not quite ‘kept?’”
She smiled at him, dark eyes twinkling.
Dexter smiled. “I love you.” He held her tight and kissed her deeply.
Steps could be heard coming down the hallway. Marcelle pushed away a little bit. Marie entered the room carrying a tray with plates and covered dishes on it. Marcelle looked at her and beamed, saying, “Monsieur Jones, let’s call him Dexter, will be staying here. With me.”
Marie smiled a warm and sincere welcome, “Bien sûr, Madame,” and she turned towards Dexter, “et bienvenu à vous, Monsieur Dexter.” She set the tray down on the table and arranged the plates and dishes and then went back to the kitchen.
Dexter went over to the mantle and got some matches and lit the candles. Marcelle poured some wine. Dexter held her chair as she sat down. As Dexter took a sip of wine, he nodded towards the bookcase and a radio. “Will your radio pickup London?”
“Sometimes.”
“Let’s try. Anthony Eden will be on the BBC tonight giving a report on the League of Nations to the British people.”
“That will be very interesting. What do you hear? If I may ask?”
“Yes, of course. Earlier in the week…”
“Yes, I was busy covering the Finance Commission,” Marcelle interjected.
“Well, the League of Nations declared that Italy was the aggressor against Ethiopia. That’s a first.”
Marcelle spoke, “Premier Laval said that the League Covenant was France’s international law. That France would meet its obligations.”
Dexter nodded in agreement. “Yes he did. He spoke well.” He took a sip of wine. “Then Eden spoke. You must remember that Eden served in the trenches with the Grenadier Guards. Two of his brothers were killed in the war.”
Marcelle’s eyes looked at Dexter with compassion and sympathy. “I didn’t know.”
Dexter continued, “Eden spoke very eloquently that no effort must be spared to achieve a peaceful settlement in accordance with the Covenant.”
“Dexter, I believe that is what France wants. The talk is constant that Premier Laval wants a settlement. His overriding concern is Germany.”
“Yes, but now the League must move to some form of enforcement. Sanctions are difficult to implement and harder to administer,” said Dexter.
“I believe France wants to avoid sanctions for now,” replied Marcelle.
“Yes, so it will be interesting to hear what Eden tells the British people tonight.”
Marcelle looked at the clock and said, “It should begin soon.”
Dexter stood up and walked over to the radio set and turned a dial; a light flickered on. He moved the dial through the static and then caught the signal, the English words “London” and “BBC” coming through. Then they heard a voice announce, “Pleased to present…the Minister of League of Nations Affairs Anthony Eden.”
Dexter sat down on the couch and stared at the radio set, transfixed. Marcelle came over and sat next to him. She took his hand in hers and placed it on her lap. She looked at the radio waiting for the words from London.
The voice of the British minister in the clipped and sonorous accent of the English high aristocracy came through the dark ether and into the warmth of the room, a modern marvel thought Marcelle. Eden explained the steps that had occurred at the League during the past week-and-a-half. Then he described the action taken by the League Steering Committee that very day to lift the arms embargo against Ethiopia while imposing an arms embargo on Italy—a step to even things up explained the British diplomat. Eden said there had been no dallying; a beginning had been made.
Eden closed his address. “I can give you this assurance, that as we have begun, so shall we go on.”
Marcelle was struck by the eloquence of the words; she squeezed Dexter’s hand. She looked at him, her dark eyes searching into his as if on a quest and said, “And so shall we.”
Dexter squeezed her hand and leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.
Saturday evening, October 19, Geneva. Geneviève Tabouis approached the front desk of the Hotel Beaurivage, presented her card, and said, “I am expected.”
“Of course, Madame,” replied the desk clerk; he knew her well. He went over to the telephone and called a room, cupped the mouthpiece with his hand, and whispered a message. He placed the mouthpiece back in its cradle and looked at Madame Tabouis and said, “Momentarily.”
Presently a young man, dressed in a well-tailored black jacket and striped trousers from Saville Row, almost a uniform among the young British diplomats thought Madame Tabouis, cam
e up to her and shook her hand. “The minister will be pleased to receive you. Please follow me.” They walked over to the elevator.
Madame Tabouis entered the suite, the aide took her overcoat, hat, and scarf, and she walked forward into the drawing room of the richly appointed room with cream-colored walls and long drooping satin curtains. Anthony Eden rose from a chair and walked over holding out both his hands in greeting, “How nice of you to come, Geneviève.”
“So nice of you to receive me, Minister.”
Eden held out his arm beckoning her to take a chair. She sat down in a comfortable armchair; he pulled up a smaller chair and sat almost directly across from her and started to talk. A bleak and depressed look came over his face as he began. “Some of the officials back at the Foreign Office in London are starting to think things over. Certain voices feel it best not to get hemmed in by too literal an interpretation of the League Covenant, particularly Article 16. They caution against an automatic response to Italian aggression.”
Madame Tabouis said, “One should not have to worry about automatic action against Italy on the part of Premier Laval.”
Eden smiled at the double edge of the remark. “Yes, I fear that there are many in England who are weary of the games played by French diplomacy,” and the minister paused, “I fear they may be preparing a retreat at home.” Then he concluded, “You know, you couldn’t expect us to act alone. The French must be with us.”
“All of the League nations must act in concert under the League Covenant,” Madame Tabouis said. “That is the ideal, that is all of our hopes.”
Eden nodded and then added, “With regard to the double game, you know my British colleagues repeat: ‘You cannot trust a man whose name can be read both ways—L-A-V-A-L!’”
Madame Tabouis laughed. “They have been reading too many of my columns.”
Eden laughed. Turning serious, he said, “You know, I have my heart and soul in collective security through the League. Europe must not have another war, to send the young and vibrant into such an inferno…” His words trailed off, he looked away, into the distance of time and his own painful memories.
Madame Tabouis nodded.
Eden stood up and Madame Tabouis followed. Eden held out his hand. “So nice you could come.” He nodded at the young aide, who came over to escort Madame Tabouis back to the lobby.
Sunday afternoon, October 27. Dexter and Marcelle walked down the sidewalk to 44 rue du Bac and turned through the arched entranceway into a stone courtyard. Going through a door, they ascended a flight of stairs. The door to an apartment was wide open, several couples—and what Marcelle took to be the odd intellectual—were standing in a drawing room gesticulating in animated conversation. They walked in.
Dexter whispered to Marcelle, “Mostly Left Bank. André is getting his thoughts together for a speech he’s making next month to the Association for the Defence of Culture. He’s sharpening up his ideas.”
Marcelle looked across the room and saw Clara Malraux. Clara quickly recognized Marcelle; her eyebrows flashed upwards in delight and she moved her lips with an unspoken hello. She walked over, reaching out her hand to Marcelle, smiled at Dexter, and then said to Marcelle, “So nice you could come. André will be pleased. Colonialism is on his mind.”
Marcelle replied, “Great. I was fascinated by the reply André and the other intellectuals made to the Far Right’s notion of the civilizing mission of the West, this idea that Italy and France are a new ‘Latin Order.’”
Clara laughed. “Oh, yes, the reactionary intellectuals and their ‘Manifesto for the Defence of the West.’ Yes, sadly, the Action Française never sleeps. They scribble on.” Then she said in a low voice, “André is going to use the concept of ‘Latin Order’ as a pretext to challenge the entire idea of colonialism.”
“That I want to hear,” said Marcelle.
“André is interested in hearing your ideas on colonialism. He thinks you have first-hand insights,” Clara said to Marcelle.
“She has. She was in Dakar for several years,” added Dexter.
Clara nodded and said, “The idea that there is some lofty mission behind European conquest infuriates André. The Right thinks that to civilize is to Europeanize. It’s just exploitation.”
Then Clara turned, a twinkle in her eye, and said to Dexter, “André said that if technical superiority implies a right of conquest, then the United States would begin colonizing Europe.”
Dexter laughed. “Our businessmen go where the commerce is. But the Congress wants to stay on its side of the ocean—this time.”
Marcelle said, “I agree with the colonialism part completely. The Far Right does not see Italy for what it is.” Then she turned thoughtful and added, “But some of the conservative writers do see the British problem. They make the point that the British are in a righteous rage over Italy planning to send a hundred thousands soldiers to dominate Ethiopia while they are silent about Germany someday mobilizing ten million German soldiers between the Rhine and Poland for who knows what purpose.”
A look of agreement swept over Clara’s face. “Of course. Most of the independent thinkers on the Left want a strong alliance with Britain but desperately want to work out a solution based on collective security through the League of Nations.”
“And the other members of the Left?” asked Dexter with a wry smile.
Clara looked around the room conspiratorially and turned back to Dexter. “Well, of course there is a whole cadre that believes we should all simply follow Moscow. But André believes that what is important is to be anti-fascist, not Communist.”
There was a small commotion off to one side; André Malraux backed away from three intellectuals in high doctrinaire dudgeon, excusing himself with the parting words, “You don’t have to be Communist. It is enough to be anti-fascist—that’s the liberal intellectual way.”
Approaching Dexter, Marcelle, and Clara, he blew a cloud of smoke over their heads, reached out and shook Dexter’s hand, and said directly to Marcelle, “Our anti-colonialist.”
André turned to Dexter. “Tell me about diplomacy and Ethiopia. Where is the League of Nations?” He folded his arms across his chest and rested his chin in his upraised palm, intently looking at Dexter for an answer.
“In a word, sanctions.”
“Yes, the British are for them. What of Laval?”
“Laval is trying to slow the process down. He doesn’t want a fight over principle…”
“Of course not.”
Dexter continued, “Laval wants to move towards a deal.”
“Hard when there’s all that high-minded British idealism about.”
“Precisely.”
“Alors. Well then. As I point out to the Catholic reactionaries, after the ‘Latin Order,’ who and what does the West mean? England—the Protestant kingdom, or the United States—the Protestant republic?”
Turning to Marcelle, André changed his line of attack. “Which countries are adopting the modern or shall we say the Western ways? In the case of women, for instance, Muslim women in the colonies of Morocco, Tunisia, and India are veiled. In the independent countries of Persia and Turkey, the women are not.”
Marcelle was captivated; she replied, “That’s it exactly. Colonialism supports the existing order, the old ways, yesterday’s ruling elite, not tomorrow’s revolutionaries.”
André, looking up and blowing smoke towards the ceiling, exclaimed, “Exactly.”
“And Mussolini?” asked Dexter.
“Mussolini? It’s not conquest that made Rome,” André crisply replied. “Rather it was Roman law and its guiding principles. Not war, but the regulation of war was the backbone of the Pax Romana. Every civilization implies the awareness of and respect for others. The reactionaries have learned nothing. Of course.”
Dexter nodded in agreement. Sensing a break, Marcelle said, “Thank you for sharing your views. We just wanted to drop in.” Turning to Clara, Marcelle held out her hand. “Thank you for invi
ting us.”
“You must come again.”
“We will.”
André nodded, saw yet another writer across the room, arched an eyebrow in greeting like a semaphore, and he was off, wagging a trailing hand in farewell at them as he left, pushing his other hand out in front of his face towards his next encounter as a greeting, the cigarette at an upraised angle from his outstretched fingers like a pennant flying from the bow of a ship.
Friday evening, November 1, rue Monsieur. The limousine pulled up to the curb and a gendarme got out of the front passenger seat onto the pavement and walked around and opened the rear door to the saloon. Marcelle got out clutching a huge newspaper in her hand, a large handbag hanging by a strap from her shoulder. She smiled, thanked the gendarme, looked in the window and waved goodbye at the chauffeur, and walked over to the large double wood doors of her apartment. She got out her key and opened the door, turned around and waved at the gendarme, and then walked through the entrance and closed the door behind her.
In the street, the gendarme waited a moment to hear the inner door open and close. Satisfied that his charge was safely returned home, he got in the front seat of the limousine. The long black car slowly pulled away up the street, the streetlamps reflecting on the brightly polished black surfaces.
Coming into the foyer, Marcelle turned and put the large newspaper on a small table with her handbag. Dexter came in from the drawing room, kissed her on the cheek, and helped her out of her overcoat. He hung it in the closet. She handed Dexter her hat and he put it on a shelf in the closet.
“Whew, what a week.” She turned and picked up the newspaper. “Let’s go into the dining room and let me show what has been accomplished.”
They turned and went into the dining room and sat down side-by-side at the table. Marcelle spread the newspaper out in front of her. It was a special edition of Journal Officiel, the official publication used by the government to print legislation, decrees, rules and other regulations. She opened it up and explained to Dexter, “It’s a special edition, over three hundred pages. Over four hundred decree laws are here.”
She paged through the paper and came to a separate section. “Here are the annexes; twenty-two corrections of texts already published. I and my assistants and some of the staff at the finance ministry labored on the corrections all day yesterday. That is why I was late getting home last night.”
She turned and smiled at him. “I thought it best not to tell you the details.”
“Understand.”
“The decrees were approved Tuesday in another all day and evening session at the Quai d’Orsay. In the middle of the session Premier Laval had to leave and testify to the Foreign Affairs Commission of the Senate on the Ethiopian affair. The demands upon him are unceasing.”
“Yes, the decree implementing the economic sanctions against Italy was published the same day,” and Dexter patted the Journal Officiel lying on the table.
Marcelle nodded. “The business interests will not like that.”
“So the senators seemed to say.”
Marcelle continued, “President Lebrun signed all the decrees Wednesday at a special session of the Council of Ministers at the Élysée Palace. Then the real work began. Every redacteur and redactrice, officials from the finance ministry, why even the secrétaire général himself…”
“No?”
“Yes,” she smiled and laughed, “gathered at the journal offices and we proofread and corrected all day and into the night.”
“A lot of work.”
“The biggest avalanche of legislation to which any country has ever yet been subjected,” and she closed the newspaper.
Dexter gently interjected, “Yes, but…”
Marcelle arched an eyebrow.
“The Finance Commission of the Chamber has voted a long list of budget amendments to the 1936 budget that if accepted by Parliament would force the revision of many of the budget decrees.”
Marcelle leaned back wearily. “Yes, but the Chamber gave Premier Laval an almost impossible task and he has accomplished it with great skill. He has asked to speak to the Commission next week when he gets back from Geneva. His program will stand.”
“His cabinet might fall,” Dexter said.
“No. That’s just newspaper talk. Last Saturday Édouard Herriot was re-elected president of the Radical Socialists. The Radicals are staying with the government.”
“You’re sure?”
“Herriot is mayor of Lyon.”
“No more need be said.”
Marcelle smiled and added, “Daladier,” mentioning the leader of the left-wing side of the Radical party, “thundered about the ‘occult influence of the oligarchies’ and called for reform of the Bank of France. He wants slogans on which to campaign for next May’s elections. He got them. For now, he leaves the headaches to Premier Laval.”
Dexter nodded in agreement.
There was a rustle as Marie came into the room and looked at Marcelle and asked, “Dinner?”
“Why yes.” Marcelle turned to Dexter. “A glass of wine, perhaps?”
“Bien sûr, Madame.”